Thursday, 11 December 2014

Stream of consciousness: Shit Head.

My eyes have been fixed on frozen image of Patrick Swayze licking an apple for at least seven days now. Though it’s hard to tell because time holds very little weight in this altered state of consciousness I have so clumsily penetrated. It was somewhere between the moment that Brian said ‘let’s get…’ and the moment Alice tipped a drooping fringe of ash from her cigarette into an empty can of Tuborg, it was in a millisecond between those moments that time seemed to freeze entirely. Brian leaned towards me mid-lurch and Alice’s eyes had begun to roll up into their lids in anticipation of some dumb suggestion. At first I assumed a dose of PCA was at work, but when I eventually caught myself immersed in astute thought, amid complete and total stillness and quiet, I realised that this wasn’t a psychedelic reaction at all. It took me approximately a day, or at least what I thought to be a day, to realise that I was stuck in my own soliloquy.

Now when I say I’ve been thinking, I’ve really been speaking all along. Speaking under a spotlight to an invisible audience completely apathetic to my joys and sorrows. I’ve been speaking into the abyss and the abyss simply doesn’t give a fuck. I’ve been traveling through time and space, sparking up the very first embers of the very first fire under purposeless monoliths alongside early man in all his bronze-skinned, filth-encrusted glory. I’ve poured wine for the emperor Nero and watched him tear the flesh from peasant bone with cruel whips. I’ve heard them name the sun Aine, Horus, Ra, Sol, Apollo, and before that it was identified with grunts and primitive wails. I’ve hung witches with Matthew Hopkins, and I’ve slung porter down my throat with at least two of the men suspected to be Jack the Ripper.

I’ve sunk the Titanic and launched a ship in the name of Helen. I’ve gone prancing through portals and I’ve played flute for the blind, faceless, howling god Nyarlahotep. My body has melted and solidified into the shapes of baying wolves and I’ve hunted shadows under Transylvanian moonlight. I’ve beaten myself into dust with prosthetics for phantom limbs and I’ve made love to sexless planets and stars with all the vigour of a coked-up, sweat polished Prometheus/Aphrodite. I have stood front row at a Coldplay concert and thought ‘what is this poisonous horse shit?’.

I’ve been the cosmic bard for a week, I’ve been the narrator of all things from earthly soil to hideous alien plasm. I’ve done all of this in the space of seven days and all within the confines of my malfunctioning, omnipotent brain. This dirty couch has been the cradle of harmony, structure, and chaos all at the same time, and I have sung their lullabies. Endless, unbroken twilight has shivered and…

…and then Brian said ‘Let’s get…let’s get chipper before the they fucking close, lads’.

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